I grew up in San Francisco in the 1970s. We were part of a church that belonged to the California Jesus movement.

And he left. I watched him walk out – he didn’t say good-bye, he didn’t even look back. It scared me, how easy it was for him to do that.

Other memories stick, no matter how much you wish they wouldn’t. They’re like a song you hate but can’t ever get completely out of your head, and this song becomes the background noise of your entire life, snippets of lyrics and lines of music floating up and then receding, a crazy kind of tide that never stops.

There were about ten years of trying, failing, trying again, suffering rejection, etc. My first published book, 'Story of a Girl', was the fourth book I wrote.

The one reader I'm trying to please as I write is me, and I'm pretty difficult to please.

Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete.

My whole life has been one big broken promise.